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He startles at this, my first and final proclamation.

I tuck my cock away, though it protests confinement violently. I gesture vaguely to the studio’s door, sending him away. Then head to the only other door in this shitty apartment, the bathroom. “I’m not mad at you. I just—fuck it. I’ll see you at rehearsal.”

****

The bathroom is more like a closet. So, I can perch on the tiny edge of the tub and run water from the sink over my hands. Drink to cool my throat and get control over my voice. The water tastes tinny and metallic. Son of a bitch. I can barely pay for this tiny patch of grime and filth and my way out—or at least a temporary respite—was just to tell Carlos no.

I was already more than halfway there. He just had to leave. I just had to let him go without addressing this awkwardness. Without apology. Without softness.

Mr. Ito would be satisfied. He’d have to be.

Outside the thin door, Carlos shuffles in my studio. Straightening his clothes, preparing to sneak out maybe. Then total silence.

No, not silence. The upstairs neighbors play the most unmelodious rap they can find. There’s late-night construction, the bleats of car horns, and the grumble of a million TVs. The noise of the city is inescapable at night … well, at least at this price range.

I stare at my phone, at Mr. Ito’s name and an empty text box. I can’t think of what to text him, so I sit there staring at his name. Mr. Ito wants me to live with him, wear nice suits, travel with him to Japan. Be his toy. He excites me. He scares me. He can give me everything I want if I can just stop fixating on Carlos.

I’m not like Carlos. He’s decent and soft and pure. And I’m a beautiful oddity. Built for luxury and filth. No middle-ground for me. It’s either decaying row-houses or penthouse suites. Weed-soaked walls or marble. I don’t fit with a guy like Carlos, any more than I fit in outside of New York.

My phone buzzes.

Mr. Ito writes. Something go wrong?

Hot shame stings all the way to my eyes. I start typing back a furious “fuck you”, but what I send is more melancholic. Satisfied?

He does not answer, which is unlike him.

Carlos knocks softly on the door. “Harper … I’m sorry.”

Jesus, how immature can I be? Hiding in the bathroom?

Mr. Ito answers. Yes. Send him away and come home.

Come home.

Start a life with a billionaire Dom. Live with him as his toy. Watch the theater thrive. What could I create with a patron like Mr. Ito?

“Harper?” Carlos calls for me again and tries to turn the knob.

I watch it dispassionately. I didn’t lock the door, but the damn thing sticks.

“Are you okay? Say something or … I’ll, well, I’ll break this knob if you don’t answer.”

I don’t deserve someone that soft and pure. I knew that from the start. Maybe that’s why I’d kept him off-limits.

I laugh, a bitter cold sound. I leave my phone in the bathroom. I twist the knob and jerk upward to open the door. I know just how I’ll send him away.

Carlos’s phone is in his hand, poised to call for help. “I … are you okay?”

I glide past him to collect the cameras from the bookshelf and the picture frame. I turn them off and then stand in front of Carlos and pluck the final one from my shirt and shut it down.

“What are…” Then he realizes with horror. “You’ve been recording this?”

I nod. “Mr. Rich-guy wanted to see me in action as a seducer. Wanted me to fuck you and record it.”

“Well.” Carlos processes in silence and stares at the electronics. He handles this way better than I would. “Thanks for stopping.”

“Yeah.” I don’t know how much longer I can stand this. How much longer before I crack.